


one teaspoon vanilla and a dash of salt

by thescrewtapedemos



Series: all that and a baking sheet too [2]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Companion Piece, M/M, Pining, featuring brandon’s complete inability to say no to 6ft5 gingers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-06 19:19:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17945585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescrewtapedemos/pseuds/thescrewtapedemos
Summary: “Your shoes are too fucking big!” Brandon exclaims, and then thinks about how he definitely did just say that out loud, and regrets everything in his entire life that lead to this moment.There’s a beat of windy silence.“Well,” Adam says. He sounds, just… unspeakably, unbearably smug.5 scenes of Brandon losing his mind +1 scene of Brandon losing his mind, but this time he’s happy about it





	one teaspoon vanilla and a dash of salt

**Author's Note:**

> companion piece of brandon’s POV for some scenes in add cinnamon to taste so it might make more sense to read that first. or maybe it doesn’t! you are the king of your own private kingdom, don’t let me tell you what to do. 
> 
> thank you to moliver for betaing this and to my water heater for exploding and getting me out of work for a day so i could write 2/3 of it. in a way this fic cost $500, because i’m sure not getting my security deposit back. 
> 
> enjoy! xoxo

[1]

In the span of, like, a month Adam has somehow colonized Brandon’s fucking apartment while he wasn’t looking.

His couch has a permanent stain in the shape of Michigan where Adam had been holding a beer when he’d said some shit Brandon had needed to tackle him for. He’s got a toothbrush in the bathroom even though he bitches about Brandon’s toothpaste every time he uses it. There’s a pair of shoes blocking the front hallway and Brandon doesn’t actually know how Adam had left them there. Had he gone home barefoot sometime without Brandon noticing?

He kicks them into the hall closet and does not to think about how big they are. Because they are kind of big. He slams the closet door so hard it shakes the pictures on the wall and stalks into the kitchen.

He does not want to bake. He’s rattled as hell and he doesn’t want to bake. He looks balefully at the beautiful handmade vase he’d paid a lot of money for in order to stuff it full of whisks and mixing spoons.

“Fuck you,” he suggests to it. It doesn’t answer. He spins and stalks out of the kitchen and back into the front hallway.

Adam’s shoes are still in the hall closet when he opens the door. He glares at them. One of them is tipped over on its side and the other’s laces are knotted so badly Brandon’s not sure they could be undone short of cutting them. They’re… big.

Adam picks up on the second ring. His little, _“Hey, what’s up man?”_ is cheerful and a little breathless.

“I hate you,” Brandon says blankly, because declaring unceasing hatred towards anything and everything hasn’t steered him wrong yet.

“Man, what the fuck?” Adam asks, sounding amused instead of offended. He’s also kind of staticky, or maybe it’s windy where he is. Brandon refuses to obsess over it. It does sound like wind, though, now that he’s thinking about it. “What’d I do now?”

“Did you leave your fucking shoes here?” Brandon demands. “Your feet are huge.”

Adam makes a little choking noise and then there’s a crashing sound that hurts Brandon’s ear, and the speakers cut for a second. Brandon flinches and then Adam’s back in his ear, a distant stream of swearing and then another fumbling noise.

“Sorry, dropped my phone,” Adam says. Brandon presses his fingertips against his temple in an effort to hold off the headache he’s starting to feel building. “My what?”

“Your shoes are too fucking big!” Brandon exclaims, and then thinks about how he definitely did just say that out loud, and regrets everything in his entire life that lead to this moment.

There’s a beat of windy silence.

“Well,” Adam says. He sounds, just… unspeakably, unbearably smug.

“Shut the _fuck_ up,” Brandon snaps because he is not thinking about this for even one single second. If he gets a boner looking at Adam’s shoes he’s going to have to jump off the highest point of Bell Place he can get to, and his career is way too young and promising for him to end it like that. “Shut the fuck up, I don’t wanna hear a word. How did you leave a whole ass pair of shoes here?”

“Okay, so,” Adam says easily. He still sounds smug and Brandon shuts the closet door so he’s not looking at the shoes anymore and can be vaguely horny without associating it with ratty worn-out Vans. “So, it’s actually a really funny story-”

Brandon heads to the kitchen, tucking his phone between his shoulder and his ear so he can half-listen to what Adam’s trying to explain while he pulls out the flour. He’s kind of feeling like making some shortbread.

 

[2]

Brandon is a very intelligent hockey player. He knows this is the case, because when he’s out getting inadvisably drunk, he always remembers to hand his phone off to whoever’s been conned into DDing for them that night. That’s how he avoids drunk-tweeting or calling exes or whatever.

Half of the roster could learn from him, is all he’s saying. He knows how to act right.

It also prevents him from screenshotting his Snapchats. He doesn’t even see them when he’s drunk, which is very good. When he’s sober and has his phone, he has the self-control to just look at the pictures instead.

He stares at the stupid picture of shirtless Adam with baby food all over him and one of his indistinguishable brood of nieces and nephews under one arm. The food is bright orange and objectively nasty-looking. Adam’s pulling a disgusted face, camera angled high so Brandon can see- well, way too much, really.

He watches the timer tick down on it and doesn’t screenshot it. He lets the picture disappear forever. It’s for his own good. For his _sanity_.

The next notification pops up less than ten seconds later. Brandon taps on it with a sense of impending doom.

Adam, again. Shirt this time, thank Christ. Baby on his chest this time, sleeping peacefully.

_shorthand shifts w mom out on date night_ , says the caption. Brandon’s cheeks are a little hot, he notes hysterically. And his heart is going a little fast.

Brandon sets the phone down gently and presses his palms against his eyes until spots start to swim. He is, he realizes with doomed slowness, so absolutely fucked.

Wanting to climb a teammate’s dick is one thing. Wanting to kiss the stupid smile off his face, wanting to hold his hand on the couch and watch his niece sleep while he probably smells like blended carrot, that is an _entire_ other animal.

God, he’s fucked.

_ur so dumb_ , he messages back, no picture because he doesn’t trust himself, and then taps out of Snapchat and into the group chat for his Toronto boys.

_who wants to go out tonight??_ he sends out because if he’s going to make decisions like having a crush on Adam Lowry then he’s gonna do it while drinking his bodyweight in Molson.

 

[3]

It would be pretty nice if everyone would fucking quit talking about how married he and Adam are. It sucks, because- yeah, so, he has a crush or whatever. But it also leaves an itching feeling in the back of Brandon’s head every time, a nagging little feeling that’s difficult to shake off.

It’s not jealousy, because first of all there’s nothing to be jealous of. And second of all, even if there were, he’d be jealous of _himself_. In about the weirdest way ever. Brandon gives himself a headache every time he tries to sort it out, so he wishes everyone would just fucking cut it out.

Unfortunately, Blake Wheeler is an asshole.

“Adam, get your wife to make more muffins,” he yells across the entire crowded locker room, because he is an _asshole_.

Brandon does not to look up from his sock tape. He doesn’t want to see Adam’s face, or encourage this in any way. Maybe, he theorizes hopelessly, if he doesn’t say anything and pretends like it didn’t happen he’ll get really lucky and Blake will actually leave.

“Man, I don’t tell him to do shit,” Adam says. Brandon squeezes his eyes shut and prays desperately for patience. Adam sounds so fucking relaxed about the whole thing. He always sounds so relaxed about the marriage thing, which just cinches the knot forming between Brandon’s shoulder blades even tighter. “You tell him.”

“Can you guys please stop calling me the fucking wife,” he sighs, giving up on patience. His sock tape is nearly done and then probably he can get out on the ice and skate until he’s either thrown up or the weird, unpleasantly sticky feeling in his chest is gone.

“You guys practically fucking live together,” Blake says and there’s the ever-familiar scuffle-grunt sound of Adam getting in a wrestling match. “And you already do all that housewife baking shit.”

Brandon can’t resist looking up. Blake’s got Adam under an arm, Adam’s hair is an ungodly mess, and Adam is looking right at him. He’s frowning a little bit, and then he’s shoving Blake away and tugging his practice jersey straight. He looks unfairly good. Hockey pads do way too much to emphasize his size, and Brandon’s sanity suffers because of it.

“Shut up, Wheels,” he says and looks away before he can make a fool of himself.

“Yeah, Wheels, shut up,” Adam echoes immediately and then his arm is landing around Brandon’s shoulders and Brandon narrowly avoids jumping out of his skin in surprise. He can’t bring himself to shove Adam away either, because he is stupid. “You know I’m the wife, anyway.”

Which is, well. Ow.

“I know enough to know I don’t wanna know,” Blake says, laughs like a total idiot, and walks away like he has no idea he’s the worst person in the world and Brandon’s just sworn a personal blood feud against him.

The silence he leaves behind is unpleasant.

“You’d be a good husband,” Adam says earnestly, after long enough has gone by for Brandon to really absorb how nicely he fits under Adam’s arm and how little he wants to know that.

Brandon spends a brief moment in abject prayer for a nice, deep hole in the ground to open up so he can jump in.

The hole does not open for him. There’s no safe way to reply. He just stares up at Adam for long enough that even he has to realize it’s awkward and then looks away. He kind of wants to run after Blake to punch him, not because he blames him exactly, but just to make himself feel better.

“Yeah,” he says finally, because honesty is the best policy or whatever the fuck. “Yeah, I would.”

_Let me be that for you,_ he wants to say because apparently he’s being especially pathetic today. That’s what’s upsetting him more than anything, that he’s being so sappy about this. He’s gonna check Blake so hard into the boards his grandchildren will have bruises.

Because there is no loving God, Adam squeezes his arm tighter around Brandon and shakes him a little before Maurice stamps in to start yelling and save Brandon from himself. He does it with very little apparent effort and his abdomen is warm, solid muscle. There is no justice to be had on this entire barren goddamn planet.

 

[4]

There has to be a point, Brandon decides with a slightly hysterical sense of amusement, where he says enough is enough and stops doing this to himself. Stops losing his mind and dignity over a dumbass idiot with a smile that makes his stomach flip like he’s in the fourth grade again and a habit of splitting his knuckles on members of opposing teams.

But, well. The snickerdoodles should be done any second now.

Brandon knows when to give up on a play, he _swears_ he does. He knows when to drop back to the D-zone, when to say fuck it and skate like crazy and hope he gets back to the net before the other team does. He’s never gonna be a first-liner, but he knows how to avoid over-committing.

He’s pretty sure this is something like that, even if it’s not hockey at all. He knows better than to keep hurting himself like this - at this point it’s just willful stupidity.

He checks the snickerdoodles dutifully to be sure they’re fully baked, even though he hasn’t under-baked a cookie in almost three years, and then knocks them onto the cooling tray and determinedly tries not to think about who they’re for. He fails, thinks about the crinkles at the corners of Adam’s eyes a little bit, and then shakes it off and stomps away to watch some stupid Bachelor or something while the cookies cool.

The apartment is a little quiet, since Adam’s off doing- whatever it is he’s doing. He’s getting unfairly used to having Adam around and, yeah, whatever. It isn’t fair but it isn’t like he’s putting a stop to it. So it’s his own fault in the end.

He slams his head back against the back of the couch a few times until he feels better.

-/-

Adam smiles at him when he finds the tub of cookies Brandon stashed in his stall and, okay, so Brandon knows it’s super obvious that he was the one that made them, but he just… he’s kind of a coward about this, maybe. Plus, plausible deniability or whatever.

Adam’s stupid smile makes his stomach roll. Brandon hates it.

“Thanks,” Adam says. He’s already got a cookie in his mouth, his cheeks all puffed up and stupid looking. His beard is really nice today, Brandon thinks helplessly, and then he shakes himself. Adam’s talking with his mouth full. It’s not cute; it’s _gross_. “You’ve been making a lot of snickerdoodles lately.”

Brandon has feelings for a fucking moron.

“Yeah, y’know,” Brandon says vaguely, instead of what he wants to do which is put his head in his hands and scream. He pulls his jersey over his head so he doesn’t have to look at Adam eating the cookies he’d made especially for him. “Hurry up.”

Adam follows him on the ice and after practice cheerfully refuses to let anyone have any of his cookies and Brandon lets himself smile thinly down at his hands as he’s putting his gear away, so no one can see.

 

[5]

Adam’s been looking at him all night.

He’s also been drinking all night. He’s looking flushed and a little sweaty and his hair is a mess and probably to people with rationality and the ability to handle themselves and a little bit less of their stupid heart committed, he doesn’t look that hot. Regrettably, Brandon is none of those things anymore.

He wants to kiss Adam. He wants to bury his face in Adam’s shoulder and, like, lick him. He’s sweaty, it would probably objectively taste gross. Brandon’s dick takes interest anyway. He regrets his third beer just a little.

Adam does keep looking, though. He looks kind of mournful as he does, like Brandon kicked a puppy in front of him. Which he would never do. In front of Adam or otherwise, actually, kicking puppies would be fucked up.

“I’d never kick a puppy,” he says.

“What?” Mark asks from beside him, sounding maybe twice as drunk as Brandon is. He’s been doing shots with Ehlers because he is an idiot and doesn’t remember why doing shots with Ehlers is a stupid, stupid idea. The reason being that Ehlers can drink everyone but maybe Dmitry under the table.

“Nothing,” Brandon says and resumes carefully peeling the label from his beer bottle in an effort to slow himself down. Across the table Scheifs shoves at a sagging Adam, looking more fond than he probably wants to.

“Rusty,” he says and both of them look at him. Brandon looks at Scheifs because it’s safer. Adam’s eyes are a little too dark. “Take Lowsy home, he’s getting messy.”

Brandon very briefly considers complaining that, Jesus Christ, he is _not_ married to Adam motherfucking Lowry. He decides not to on account of it probably being way too obvious to anyone more observant than Lowsy himself exactly how badly he kind of wishes he were.

“Am not,” Adam mumbles. He’s starting to sag back towards Scheifs again, and is pretty obviously lying through his veneers. “Dick.”

Brandon heaves a sigh that feels like it comes from the very bottom of his chest and starts maneuvering past Mark to get out of the booth. He is going to end up taking Adam back to his apartment and tucking him in on the couch with a bottle of water and some aspirin. He’s not even upset, exactly, more upset that he’s not upset.

Adam crowds him all the way to coat-check, nudging against his shoulder and prodding at him every few steps in a way he probably isn’t aware of. Brandon’s kind of amazed he can keep his feet, Brandon drank like half of what he had and he’s feeling kind of unsteady on his feet as is. It’s kind of cute, though, and he snorts at Adam and elbows him back when he gets too close.

Adam pays even less attention to Brandon’s elbows than usual as they queue to get Brandon’s coat. He just crowds back in, sagging towards him like he’d been sagging on Scheifs earlier. He really is messy, and Brandon is trying not to be endeared and failing miserably.

“You’re the worst,” he tells Adam, because someone really needs to let him know. Adam peers at him, looking like an owl. A contented, stupid-drunk owl.

“You’re the best,” he says. He sounds like he means it, and Brandon thanks every single one of his lucky stars and another couple he invents on the spot that the lady running the coat-check gestures him forward before he can say anything back. He’s feeling dangerously out of control.

Adam swipes the coat out of the lady’s hand before Brandon can grab it and then looks down at it like he has no idea how it’d gotten there. Brandon shrugs apologetically and rolls his eyes to the lady, and then starts edging Adam out of the way of the rest of the crowd.

For a second Adam glances up and down between the jacket in his hands and Brandon, looking like he’s trying to put together a really complicated puzzle. Brandon raises his eyebrows and rocks back on his heels a little because his balance isn’t a full hundred percent at the moment.

“Here,” Adam says with a grin flashing like he just had the best idea ever and sweeps the jacket around Brandon’s shoulders.

Adam’s hands are so stupidly gentle on him, nudging Brandon’s arms into his jacket. There’s still a little of the smile turning his mouth up at the corners, soft and private and probably nothing he’s aware of. He’s swaying a little in place and his gaze is unfocused, but it slips right past Brandon’s face.

This is it, he realizes distantly. This is the point where enough really is enough. This, with Adam standing so close that Brandon can smell the sweat under his cologne, so close that leaning up to kiss him and ruining everything feels like all but an inevitable outcome. This is when Brandon stops kidding himself.

“Hey, husband,” Adam murmurs and smiles at Brandon so heartbreakingly softly.

Brandon’s chest hurts.

He’s angry, suddenly. So fucking angry. His heart kicking and kicking against his ribs and sick, sharp adrenaline pooling in his gut. At Adam, for not knowing how much hearing that hurts. At this stupid fucking bar, at the low lights on Adam’s mouth and how the smell of stale beer is the backdrop to all of this being over way too soon even though it feels like he’s been living like this for- forever, almost.

At himself, most of all.

Adam grunts in surprise when Brandon’s fist catches him in the chest. He stumbles back a step, out of reach of Brandon’s bad decisions.

“What the fuck,” Adam snaps out. He’s got big shocked eyes and his hands are balled up into fists and he’s a drunk-ass mess. Rumpled clothes and flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. Brandon wants him.

“Fuck off, Lowry,” he says softly and turns himself around and starts putting one foot in front of the other until he can breathe again.

 

[+1]

Adam has been dodging him all day which would normally barely bother Brandon, honestly, it really wouldn’t.

Except today is their two-year anniversary and Brandon is trying very, very hard not to lose his shit about it. It’s not that he cares about the anniversary, as such. He’s going to be very understanding when Adam admits he forgot all about it and didn’t make any kind of plans, but Adam has to _be here_ for him to do that.

He isn’t here. He hasn’t been in the apartment all day, he’s been gone pretty much since the moment he’d rolled out of bed, and Brandon’s reaching the end of the mindless Netflix he can watch before he gets so stressed-out he disappears into the Winnipeg wilderness to start a commune or, like, starve to death.

He picks up his phone, even though he knows he hasn’t gotten a text, because he’s had it faceup right in front of him since the last time he’d checked.

His last text from Adam was a mountain emoji, a bicep emoji, and an eggplant emoji. Under any other circumstances Brandon would assume Adam had just jacked off, but the text before that had been about how weird the produce selection at Whole Foods is, and celery had never really done it for Adam before. Brandon might love him, but he doesn’t _understand_ him.

His phone vibrates in his hand and he’s so busy drowning in ennui that he nearly rejects the call before he realizes it’s from Adam. And then he nearly drops his phone, and he’s kind of out of breath by the time he answers it.

“What,” he snaps.

“Hello to you too,” Adam says. He sounds very amused. Brandon meanly contemplates hanging up on him.

“Hi,” he says sourly instead. “Are you coming home?”

“Sure, in a bit,” Adam says breezily. “Listen, I’m really sorry, but can you go grab my kit from the arena? I left it there this morning and I need to get some stuff in it.”

“You’re kidding,” Brandon says. He’s getting a headache. He does love Adam, he really does, he reminds himself. He isn’t going to murder his boyfriend. He’d never get away with it, the boyfriend is the first person the police suspect, he knows that. Plus, he hasn’t figured out how to kill people through the phone yet.

“Please?” Adam says and… he does sound like he genuinely needs something out of his fucking kit. “I’ll be home real soon babe, promise. For me?”

Brandon sighs through his nose. At least the arena isn’t that far away.

“You’re gonna owe me so big,” Brandon warns and gets to his feet creakily. It wasn’t like he was doing anything anyway.

“ _So_ big,” Adam promises, and hangs up on him.

-/-

He knows the instant he opens the front door that something is weird. The whole apartment smells like food. Really good food. And someone he really hopes is Adam is clattering around in the kitchen, just out of sight.

Brandon kicks the door shut and drops Adam’s bag on the ground with a crash.

“Adam?” he calls tentatively.

“Fuck!” Adam responds and Brandon relaxes. “One sec, stay right there!”

Brandon waits for exactly one second and then goes around the corner into the kitchen at what is definitely more of a speedy walk than a jog.

Adam’s grinning at him, arms crossed over his chest. He’s standing in front of the kitchen table, which is set with a tablecloth and candles and the nice dishes Brandon has in the top cupboards for when his mom comes over and he needs to pretend to be a functional adult and not a developmentally stunted hockey player. There’s a roast. There are _multiple_ vegetable-centric side-dishes.

He’s pretty sure the bottle of wine is one he bought himself.

“You were supposed to wait,” Adam teases.

“I waited!” Brandon says automatically. He isn’t sure he’s blinking. He’s not sure he’s breathing, either.

“I didn't use your kitchen at all,” Adam says proudly and gestures expansively out at the spread of side dishes, the steaming bowl of mashed potatoes, the pretty little roast. “Or, well, I microwaved the butter a little. Happy anniversary.”

Brandon is torn for a very, very long moment. On the one hand he wants to put his head in his hands because, holy shit, he'd been _kidding_ about Adam not touching his kitchen. Mostly. Almost entirely. Also, he’d made that joke a _year_ ago, when they’d first moved in together, and Adam had very definitely used the kitchen since then. His boyfriend is absolutely fucking insane.

On the other hand, there's something very sweet and a little bit painful than Brandon is kind of terrified might be happy tears welling up in his chest.

“I love you,” he says blankly.

“Love you too, babe,” Adam says. He’s very, very smug and very punchable. The roast smells _so_ good.

“Wait,” he realizes abruptly. “Wait, how did you make this if you didn't use my kitchen.”

“Oh, I used Scheifs’,” Adam says, still smiling like what he'd just said wasn't some outright bonkers shit. “Keeping the roast warm for the trip back was the trickiest part. And I spilled sauce in the elevator but I don't think they can prove it was me?”

Brandon blinks at him and then paws his phone out of his pocket.

“What are you doing?” Adam asks after a moment. He sounds kind of put out. Brandon doesn't look up, because he knows Adam and he knows himself and he also knows if he sees Adam's stupid idiot pouting face there's no way he'll be able to stop himself from kissing it away and he has a text message to send.

“Apologizing to Scheifs for you being absolutely insane,” he says absently. Adam makes an offended noise.

“He was alright with it,” he argues. Brandon doesn’t look up from his phone.

“Just because he can’t say no to you doesn’t mean it wasn’t absolutely insane, you fucking maniac,” he says. He sounds fond and he’s not proud of himself, but he’s standing in his truth. “Next time just use our kitchen.”

“ _Our_ kitchen?” Adam asks, and he sounds like he’s doing that one smile he does where his eyes end up all crinkled up that makes Brandon’s brain leak out of his ears. “You’d be cool with that? Really?”

Brandon sighs through his nose and hits send on the text.

“Don’t use my nice baking sheets maybe,” he allows and looks up at Adam. Who’s staring at him, starry-eyed, like Brandon just handed him a winning record and a clear path straight to the Stanley Cup. “But yeah, obviously you can use our kitchen. You weirdo.”

“Oh my god,” Adam says and breaks into the biggest grin. He’s across the room and spinning Brandon around by his upper arms a moment later, two dizzying circles and then sweeping him into a huge bear hug that lifts him up on his toes.

“Put me down,” Brandon complains, but he’s got both hands knotted in the back of Adam’s shirt so he knows not to listen. Adam doesn’t, kisses his temple and finally deposits his full weight back on his heels. 

Adam is still smiling very big, which is very distracting to Brandon, which is why it takes a second for him to register it when Adam says, “Marry me, Tanev.”

He stumbles a little bit when Brandon pushes him back. He makes a heartbreakingly sad little face.

Brandon cannot give a single shit, on account of freaking the fuck out.

“Holy fuck,” he chokes out. “You- did you just propose to me?”

“I,” Adam says and he looks a little like the one time Trouba had hit him with a puck right in the side of the helmet and knocked him like five feet down the ice on his ass. Blank, innocent shock that the world is somehow completely the wrong way up and nothing like he’d thought it was. “I, no I didn’t.”

A beat of slightly dangerous silence.

“No?” Brandon demands, and his voice pitches _way_ the fuck up.

“Would you say yes?” Adam interrupts Brandon’s escalating hyperventilation.

Brandon goes quiet.

“Because,” Adam says after a moment. “Because that would be a shitty proposal. If it were a proposal. Which I didn’t mean it to be. But you would deserve better. I can do better.”

“Motherfucking Jesus fucking Christ,” Brandon enunciates carefully.

“That’s, like, not a yes,” Adam says, and then blinks. “Or a no. Right?”

Brandon is going to climb Adam like his dick is the final American Ninja Warrior obstacle and he’s seconds ahead of the buzzer. As soon as the shock wears off and he can feel his body again, he swears.

“I would probably say yes,” he says at last. “For, y’know. Future reference. Or whatever.”

“Oh,” Adam says. He starts smiling. It’s the brightest smile Brandon’s ever seen. “Oh, good.”

He doesn’t fall into the food when Brandon tackles him but it’s a close one.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] All that and a baking sheet too](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18214133) by [Annapods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annapods/pseuds/Annapods)




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